May 11, 2003:train ride home from the land of Greenlaughing faces,quickening paces as catcalls knife themselves into threats.

Into a death come sixty years tooearly.

A body, hard on the cold concrete, redblood to reflect cherry blossom trees.Just across the river from the freedom that hides in anonymity.

May 11, 2003:small child, turning six years old.She is protected as much by the white of her skinas she is by her town ofwhite picket fences.

Listen to the gleeas it flees from her throat at the sight of a new present--it echoes the screams that reverberate througha Canyon of Steel

at that same momenton that same day.

October 12, 2015:I am no longer the six-year old birthday girlbut some kind of figure to Hate.The devil has Crimedhis way into the way I love,into the life I live.

But my dreams are not yetdeferred indefinitelybecause of the privilege I inherited,never earned.

Now I’ve learned that justice is justa headlineto pose next to “Best Dressed Celebrities in Hollywood!”

Tell me,“She didn’t have to die.”You’re the thing that killed her.

Author Bio:Pascale Jarvis is a first-year student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where they* study creative writing. When they aren’t huddled in a chair, scribbling in a notebook, they enjoy painting murals, climbing trees, and kick boxing. One day, Pascale hopes to pulverize the gender binaries of society armed with pencil and paintbrush, and maybe a cup of coffee as motivation.